


Good Boy

by Tammany



Series: The Secret Marriage [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Consensual BDSM play., Consensual bondage., Consensual denial of orgasm, Consensual discpline, Consensual sex-slave play, Consesual mild pain play, Kink, M/M, Mild BDSM, Sub!Mycroft, dom!Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 16:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20915441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: The Kinkfest continues. (shrug) I may not get these inspirations very often. I run dull, that way. But when they arrive, they do indeed arrive. Have fun, my dears. Mycroft's Man continues to be properly, dominantly in charge of the action, but this installment is mixed POV.Read the tags. Husband Greg gets a fair lot of mileage out of his boy. Oh, and climax is had. By one... :)





	Good Boy

Mike woke with a gasp and a squall, tumbled abruptly from his warm, secure place on his man’s lap to the dirt floor of the arbor. For a fleeting second his ordinary, daily persona took over, and he snapped, “What the devil? Dammit—”

Before he could complete his oath, a cup of water from the koi pond hit him full in the face.

“Boy…” Greg’s growl was low and cautionary, and Mike found himself jerked securely back into his role as Greg’s sex toy. He cringed and ducked down, with a chastened whine.

“Sorry, Greg. I’m sorry.” He twisted until he was on his knees, hunched low, face lying on the dirt. The gaudy blue-green silks of his harem loincloth and of the sash binding his hands behind his back coiled like serpents around him.

“Good. I don’t want to hear any more sass out of you, you posh twat.”

Hands reached down to Mycroft’s own bound hands and untied the sash, taking time to test fingers for chill.

“That hurt?”

“No, Greg.”

“Good. Remember, you tell me if it’s too tight or too long.”

“Yes, Greg.”

He shivered inside at Greg’s care. That was one of the aspects of this game he could barely express: what it felt like to be taken care of this way, and ordered so sternly to take care of himself. It was like a warm hearth burning in his heart, warming him.

“Good baby. Now—get up. That’s right. No—chin up, eyes ahead. Look around. Let’s see what you’ve got, pretty boy. Just think—if I screwed up the security up here, you’re on display to anyone who’s interested for miles around. How does that feel, baby. Imagine it…”

He shivered, looking at London laid out around him. Without the security tech at work, some combination of eyes and tech sensors would be able to see him here, naked except for the provocative but totally revealing silks—silks designed to advertise his sexual vulnerability, announcing to the world that every inch of his body was someone’s sex toy. In silks, he had no claim to modesty, to chastity, to choice. In silks he was a seductive convenience.

Not Mycroft Holmes, “a minor civil servant.” Not Mycroft Holmes, “The British Government.” Mikey, Greg’s obedient little twat, ready to do anything his man demanded—and like it. Fall to pieces over it. A willing tramp.

He felt a full-body blush creeping over him, flushing his pale skin. The humiliation tightened his tiny nipples and made his arse clench around the fat butt plug filling him to the point of discomfort.

Filling him to the point of arousal—the sense of it there as his bum crimped tight triggered an erection, slow-filling but demanding. He heard Greg’s soft chuckle as his cock filled, slowly, slowly, plump and reckless and demanding between his thighs.

“Look at you, baby. Hard for it. Tell me your fantasy, boy. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

It was hard to talk without panting from the ache and need. “There’s a chair,” he said, not quite gesturing to one of the big wicker arm chairs. “You could bend me over that, husband, and take my arse.”

“And no doubt let you come?”

“No,” he said quickly, “Only if you want to.”

“And if I don’t want to? It’s early still, baby boy. We slept in late. We’ve only begun to play. We’ve got days and days before our little holiday is over. I could keep you begging until the end—and even then leave you cold and horny. Would that excite you, too?”

It would. Just the notion of days spent needing release and being denied—being denied by Greg, who would taunt and tease so gently, so lovingly…nnnng. Mike flashed back to what he had felt like, lying on Greg’s chest, just barely sitting on his lap, Greg’s thigh vibrating between his thighs, setting the butt plug quivering inside him… Greg feeding him chocolate pudding the very flavor of childhood, finger fucking his mouth with every dense, slippery, baby-food bite.

Ngggg.

He nearly came untouched just thinking about it, cock no longer slightly full but oak-hard.

In seconds Greg held it tight, and was fastening on a complicated cock ring and cage of some sort. He glanced down.

The cage was a slim, woven tube anchored to the tight ring around the base of his cock and balls. The shaft was a bias weave, ending at the tip with a ring that could be tugged—or attached to a slim leash.

“This is for bad boys who need extra control,” Greg said, smug. “It’s based on Chinese finger traps. It’s got extra discipline built in. Let me demonstrate.” His fingers grabbed the ring at the tip of the stuffed tube of wire and silk. The woven tube tightened down hard, like a fist closing over his cock…and at the tip a set of what felt like tiny thorns arched in, pressing tight against the tender head. He failed to hold back a frantic moan.

Greg chuckled, a filthy, amused chuckle that suggested he had hoped for this-and had plans for the future based on the wicked little trap. “Look at you,” he said, satisfied. “Just look at you. Not even evening and you’re mussied up and you’ve let yourself be treated like a total tramp for hours, and now you got your cock caught in a cock-trap and you can’t get out. Poor baby. It’s only going to get worse, you know?”

Mike was shivering, hot, hard, humiliated, longing, needy, embarrassed—a dozen racing, powerful feelings all wrapped in a heavy blanket of desire. He wanted this. He needed it.

“Yes, Greg,” he managed to gasp.

“What do you say, baby?”

“Thank you, Greg.”

Greg nodded and grinned in real pleasure and pride, and Mike felt his gratitude swell as hard and heavy as his cock. Greg was a gentle man—this game was something he did first to please Mycroft, and while he took care to get pleasure out of it himself, it was a learned response, not an automatic one. Greg did this for his boy, and did it well.

His hand fondled Mycroft’s cock in idle ownership, the big black sapphire ring gleaming in the afternoon sun. For his boy, he’d become something so impressive.

“Thank you,” Mycroft husked again, throat tight with tears. “Thank you, Greg…”

There was a moment of bashful silence, then Greg cleared his throat. “You’re welcome, baby boy.” Then, more forcefully, “Into the flat, brat. I’m hungry, and I don’t intend to leave you out here to get yourself in trouble.” Greg’s hand smacked hard on Mycroft’s bum, setting off echoes of the thrashings given the night before, and over the past couple hours. He strode away, then, with his sex toy scuttling behind to keep up.

Compared to the broad-daylight glare of the garden, the flat was dim. It was also cold—far to cold for Mycroft. The soft hum of an air conditioner explained the midsummer Ice Age. Greg had to have set it for polar extremes.

Greg led his boy over to a cushion between the parlor sofa and chair, close enough to be in reach of either.

“I’m going to watch some telly,” he said. “You’re going to be a good boy and lie here.” He pointed at the cushion. It was round, and would just—just barely—hold Mycroft if he curled tight. “Lie down, Mike.”

Mike knelt cautiously on the pad, then curled tight, tucking his knees close to his chest, hugging himself with arms.

Greg moved, snapping a cable attached to a ring in the floor to the ring in the tip of the cock trap. “Don’t try to get up,” he said. “It will just trap you tighter.”

Mycroft whined softly, but nodded. “Yes, Greg. Thank you.”

“Be good, baby.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, hugging his knees tight. He heard Greg moving around the palatial flat—getting food from the refrigerator, putting together some kind of drink with ice and, from the sound of it, seltzer or soda or some other carbonated beverage. Then he came back, turned the telly on to a sports show, and sprawled comfortably in the arm chair. He kicked off his shoes—and propped his feet on Mike’s arse, with a sigh.

A second later, the butt plug planted deep inside Mike went off like a jackhammer.

Mike had forgotten what his fingers had told him handling the plug earlier: that it housed a powerful motor and was a beast of a vibrator. He was so startled he sat up abruptly, gasping and choking out stunned response.

Sitting up tugged the cock-trap tight—very tight, with the gripping sort of grasp of a milking machine, clutching his cock. The thorns in the tip extended, jabbing hard. This time Mycroft did more than gasp, instead wailing at the brutal grip and sting.

“Lie down, slut,” Greg snapped.

Mycroft met his firm, annoyed stare—and forced himself back into his fetal coil. Greg put his feet back up on his boy’s thrumming buttocks. He smiled—both victory and satisfaction at the soothing hum of a living massage toy.

“Good boy,” he said, and leaned back into the armchair. He proceeded to enjoy the footie match, biting into a fat sandwich and drinking a rum and coke.

Mycroft lay as still as he could—too large for the cushion, but determined to stay coiled tight. The lingering sensation of the cock-trap was unnerving. Like a more ordinary Chinese finger-trap, it would tighten as hard as it could—and only stop if it broke. The modern version seemed made of sterner materials than the straw ribbon the old child’s toy was made of. His cock felt like it had been fisted by Thor. And now here he was—a captive foot warmer, the monster in his arse driving him around the bend with overstimulation. His own cock tried to swell even tighter, aching with need, as the vibrator hit his prostate over and over, and quivered in low frequencies that made the skin of his arsehole tingle.

Occasionally he looked up to find Greg’s eyes on him, smug and satisfied and clearly aware of how helpless and subject to use his boy felt.

Once he crooned, softly, and kneaded Mycroft’s bum with his toes. “Good baby. I’m going to make you beg for it, baby.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, enduring—and daydreaming of things yet to come.

When Greg’s game finished, he slid out of the chair and sat on the floor by his boy. He offered Mycroft a piece of luncheon meat from what remained of the sandwich. “Salami, pet?”

Mycroft, hungry, accepted, lapping the meat from Greg’s fingers.

“Rum and coke?” He offered Mike the tip of a straw. Mike sucked, and sucked deeper, enjoying the burn of the rum and the intense sweet of both the rum and the soda.

A few more bites. A few more sucks of the drink. Then they were done. Greg began stroking his boy.

“Such a good boy. Look at you. I can’t believe it. You’re like a sloppy Doberman, Mikey: you look so tough on the outside, but here you are, at my feet, just a softy. Just your man’s baby. So pretty in your silks—you know you look like sex on offer in those silks, don’t you baby?”

“Yes.”

“It embarrasses you, doesn’t it—all tricked out like the tart you are, so anyone could see it if we gave them access. Sometimes I think about it, you know. Calling in Sherlock and John for a night of poker, you there at my feet for them to see. Let them see you’re not just my husband, you’re my good boy. Let them wonder what we do together. So hot…”

Mycroft shivered. He knew Greg would not do that. He knew he’d only brought it up because the threat of Sherlock and John knowing was horrible to the point of panic—and as a result, sexy to the point of spilling without being touched. So long as it never happened…

He whined. “Please, no?”

Greg stroked his head like he was stroking a big dog. “Shhh, baby. No. I won’t. But I think about it, sometimes. You just like this, sexy and meek and tricked out in silks, mouth still colored with a bit of the lipstick from earlier, still a bit sore and full—and getting puffier as I pet you. Arse filled with that big honkin’ vibrator churning away against your prostate. Eyes wide open and needy. Cock in a cock-trap. I’d pat you in front of them. Play with your mouth. Make you lie on your back and rub your belly, watch your cock wave in the air as you wiggle for me. Their eyes watching, and watching, all the questions there, all the ideas just…floating in the air.”

He unclipped the lead from the ring at the end of the cock-trap, and rolled Mike over on his back. Without explanation he folded one of Mycroft’s legs up, pushing his knee outward and raising his calf until his heel nearly touched his bum. He used one panel of the loincloth to tie it up, weaving the silk under his thigh, then spreading it wide over his calf before it knotted tight, opening his crotch to the chill air. He repeated the action with his other leg, and the other panel. He ran his hand slowly, lovingly down Mycroft’s belly, just as though he were indeed stroking a big dog. He caressed Mycroft’s bound cock and balls, making him whimper. Mike's cock waved free in the air, unable to soften. It twitched against the cock cage and the cock ring, unable to easily come—though one drip of pre-come oozed delicately from the narrow tip of the cage, just below the ring.

Greg moved, settling himself between Mike’s thighs, pushing his feet aside.

“I’m going to use you,” he said, voice gone husky, hands stroking and playing, teasing Mycroft’s body. “You’ve been a good boy. I won’t let you come—but because you’ve been patient I’m going to use you, boy.” He took lube out of his pocket, and slicked the skin around the neck of the butt plug, working the skin up and down the hard plastic, forcing the lubricant into the interior of his hole. When he was sure he'd fully re-moistened the skin and prepared Mycroft for the next action, he wrenched the plug out fast and hard, just as he’d put it in, making sure it felt as rough as his boy liked it—making him feel properly helpless and used.

“You like that, baby. You’re going to like all this.” He slowly unzipped his trousers and slipped his cock from inside, pushing his pants down inside his trousers to give himself clearance. He slicked his cock, lightly—the lube plain, not the stinging, burning choice he’d used on Mike earlier. He knew he’d feel traces of the earlier choice as he fucked his boy—just hints and echoes, enough to be sexy but not painful. He pushed his boy until his body lay on the carpet, his arse raised up by the cushion Greg now knelt on. He lined himself up—then rammed in, hard. Mike gave a wild, breathy wail.

Greg leaned over, then, gathering up his boy’s upper body, pulling him so he half-straddled Greg’s lap, and clung hugging to his shoulders and chest. He nuzzled his lips, then took his mouth seductively, ravishing his lips, sucking and nipping. He murmured, “Hold on tight,” and eased his own hands free, forcing Mike to support himself by clinging to his husband. One hand, now free, gripped the nape of Mycroft’s neck, possessing his head, controlling his upper body. The other found a nipple and began rough play, pinching and twisting and tugging the tender flesh.

Mycroft moaned into it all. Greg rolled his hips, thrust deep. He kissed, suckling his boy’s lower lip. He pinched and teased. He intentionally rubbed against Mike’s captive cock. It was intended as a complete possession, no part of Greg left unsatisfied—not part of Mike left unused.

He took his time. He possessive, territorial, making sure Mike knew his body belonged to Greg this afternoon. He shoved in, and in, and in, pulling out fast, pushing in hard, until his pelvic bones butted into Mike’s like an angry ram, and his heavy balls smacked against his boy’s coccyx.

Mike wormed, and whined, and panted.

Greg pulled back from his mouth for a moment. “Boy, I want you to play with your own nipples. Do it hard, like I would.”

Mike nodded, and reached up. He gripped tight and pinched both hard. Greg reached down and found the ring of the cock-trap. He began a steady, soft tug, in sync with his cock driving in and out of Mycroft’s slick arse. He could feel the reaction in his own cock, as Mycroft’s arousal pounded at his cock, and the cock ring and cock trap kept it from climax. He wriggled and moaned and whimpered.

“God, you’re pretty when you’re fucked…” He drove in harder. Bang. Bang. Bang. He leaned back in, claiming his boy’s puffy red lips. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Mycroft wailed, hips stuttering as he cruised on the crest of a climax denied, almost there, almost there, almost there, wave after wave of not-quite-there. He writhed with it, babbled desperate pleading and begging against Greg’s mouth, around his probing tongue. Greg felt his fingers continue their rough tease of his own nipples. He could feel his boy strain against the silks that bound him and held him wide open.

“Such a hot little twat,” he growled. “Mine, baby. You’re mine. Your body is mine. Your arse is mine. I will take you when I want to, and let you come when I please.”

Mycroft met his eyes, frantic with climax denied…and fantasy fulfilled.

Seeing it—the despair and completion in one frantic look, Greg came.

And came.

And came, filling his boy’s bum, driving in and in and in, until come oozed out around his driving cock, dripping up the crack in his boy’s arse. Finally, replete and satisfied, he fell forward, resting on his boy’d stomach.

He idly patted the man still squirming beneath him, teasing his cock trap and tickling his balls, stretching out Mycroft’s blocked desire as his lover twitched and crooned his helpless longing.

“That’s it, baby. So hot…so good to see you there begging and wiggling and knowing I’m not going to give you what you want. Not yet. Whose boy are you, baby?”

Mycroft gasped, barely able to speak past his own need. “Yours.”

“Whose?”

“Yours, Greg.”

“Who owns you?”

“You do?”

“And who am I?”

“You are my husband. My man.”

“And you, my dearest boy, are my slut. My tramp. My twat. Aren’t you?”

“Yes…”

He gave a final teasing stroke to cock and balls against his belly, then rose up.

“Lick me clean, Mikey. Then I’ll go out and get you some more food, before you come lie on the couch and make out with me.”

Mycroft crept up to his knees, and lowered his head, lapping at the sweat and come on his man’s cock. He noticed Greg had been careful—that his clothes were still immaculate. He was careful to keep them that way. When he’d licked away every stray drop, he leaned back again.

“Done, boy?”

“Yes.”

Greg rose, tucked himself in, thenzipped up. Kneeling still between Mycroft’s legs, he untied the silks—but left the loincloth on. He caressed Mycroft’s entire crotch like a man tousling the unruly hair of a boy.

“Good boy. Good boy. I’ll get you something to eat.” He left, came back with a handful of cherry tomatoes, and fed them to his boy one at a time, before ordering him up and onto the sofa, and reclaiming his lips and body as his own, teasing him for hours to come, until well after nightfall.

Mycroft was a good boy. He kissed and caressed and petted—and submitted to every filthy touch his man chose to take. He blushed with it, knowing himself for a kinky, needy little submissive slut—

And he thanked Greg for it in his mind, over and over, satisfied and desperate at the same time, his cock aching in its cage, and his heart hammering out his delight with the games they played together.


End file.
